The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (32 page)

He’d really thought he could do it. Just over ten years had slid by since that night he’d saved Lur a second time. Ten peaceful years and no hint of trouble. He weren’t old yet, but for certain sure he was getting older. Hadn’t he earned the right to live his life for himself?

’Cept now here was Fernel Pintte… and the bastard was starting to stir trouble again. Starting to make his noises about the Doranen, and who did Lur really belong to, eh?

He might be more polite about how he says so, compared to last time, but he ain’t changed his bloody tune. And now he’s got folks startin’ to hum along with him.

And seein’ as how he’d so neatly got hisself made mayor, well, that meant trouble were only just got started. The Mayor of Dorana had a lot of clout, not only in the City but most places in Lur. Folk paid attention. With Pellen that had meant trouble got sat on till it ran out of air. But he knew, he
knew,
alarm humming in his bones, that Fernel Pintte were about to start fanning flames, not smothering ’em.

’Cause that be the kind of manky man he is. And once he starts stirrin’ in earnest, Barl bloody save us then. I was right. He weren’t ever to be trusted.

Seeing as how Pellen weren’t well enough for dancing, which he could manage well enough even with only one leg, they’d set him up all cosy and important on a dais down the far end of the Guildhouse’s vast meeting room. Just this moment he was all on his lonesome, smilin’ a bit watching Rafel and Charis bow and curtsey at the end of their jiggin’ about, so Asher tipped the rest of his spiced cider down his throat.

“Reckon I’ll have a quiet word with Pellen,” he announced.

“Oh,” said Dathne, disappointed. “But it’s time for Meistress Choice, Asher. I was going to ask you to dance.”

Again? Perish the thought. “Ask Pintte,” he said, and gave her his empty glass. “See if you can wheedle him into sayin’ what he’s up to.”

He left his wife complaining under her breath and threaded his way through the fringes of the Guildhouse throng, nodding and smiling but not stopping until he reached Pellen in his fancy chair, up on the dais.

“Reckon you’d be better off at home,” he said, and hooked an empty chair closer. If it were anyone else he’d sit himself up on the dais, but ’cause this were Pellen he minded his manners. “Ain’t all this cater-waulin’ givin’ you a headache?”

“Odd as it may seem,” said Pellen, his smile inching wider, “some of us do enjoy music.”

Dropping into the chair, he scowled at the fussy clot of Olkens in the gallery above them, with their fiddles and recorders and whatnot. “This ain’t music, it be a herd of cats bein’ strangled so a bunch of fools can prance about like drunk spring lambs, gettin’ mucky with sweat.”

Pellen looked at him. “You’re calling my daughter a drunken spring lamb?”

“Y’know what I bloody mean.”

“Almost always,” said Pellen, and laughed.

Ha. As the caterwauling started up again, Asher looked at the crowd of merrymakers. Them lasses with the gumption to ask a man to dance were leading their swains out to make fresh fools of ’emselves. Rafel was picked, of course. Some sweet-faced Olken girl. Charis, bold little minx, had asked a young Doranen lad to jig with her and he’d said yes. Eyebrows were going up here and there, seeing it. Equal or not, these days, there weren’t much hobnobbing Doranen to Olken and
never
a suggestion of two turning sweethearts.

It might come one day. Prob’ly will. But if it does I hope I ain’t around to see it. Talk about ructions…

Fernel bloody Pintte had agreed to dance with Dathne. The usurped mayoral chain flashed and winked on his chest as he elbowed his way to the middle of the dance floor. Ten years had aged him, and too much rich food had fattened him, but that didn’t stop the bastard leering at Dathne like a tomcat.

Asher felt his face scrunch tight. “Reckon I’d rather Morg put out my eyes with that poker of his afore I had to sit here and watch
that
.”

“Asher…” Pellen shook his head. Not a dark hair left on it, these days. Where’d the bloody time go, eh? “It’s one thing not to like Fernel. It’s quite another to paint him a villain without proof.”

He snorted. “Proof? We got all the proof we need. You heard him that day in your parlour. You know what he thinks
and
you know what he wants.”

“Yes,” said Pellen softly. “I heard him. I heard you, too. It’s not what a man thinks but what he does that defines him. So far Fernel Pintte’s done nothing more outrageous than win an election you wanted him to lose.”

“Pellen, be you goin’ deaf in your old age? He’s banging that same drum again, he’s—”

“Not once incited anyone to violence,” said Pellen. “He’s just talking, Asher. He’s perfectly free to talk.”

Stymied, Asher glowered at the sight of Pintte daring to laugh at something Dathne said.
Charm my bloody wife, would you? Lay a finger on her untoward, you bastard, and I’ll set a wereslag on you so sinkin’ fast…

“Besides,” said Pellen. “It’s not just Fernel Pintte, you know. There are Doranen, too, who look longingly at the mountains.”

What? He’d not heard a bloody thing. Trust Pellen to know. “Who?”

Pellen examined his fingernails. “I’ve been told… Rodyn Garrick. Sarle Baden’s another one. Oh, and Ain Freidin. You recall her?”

Ain Freidin? Aye. And what were Rodyn Garrick up to with a Doranen? He’d ask, but Garrick weren’t here tonight, of course—catch him honouring an Olken. Arlin was, though. Made Rafel’s life a misery at school, the poxy little runt. Like father, like son. Sarle Baden he weren’t over-familiar with. Lived mostly in the country, out beyond the Home Districts somewhere. With luck he’d bloody stay there.

And they’re all stirrin’ trouble, are they? Reckon I need to put my ear a bit closer to the ground.

“Perhaps,” said Pellen slyly, “if they talk long and persuasively enough they’ll convince the General Council to consider another expedition.” His tired eyes widened in mock-dismay. “Imagine that, my friend—Fernel Pintte and Rodyn Garrick romping hand in hand over the mountains and far away. I can see why you’d object. Who would you have to bellyache about then?”

“Ha,” he said, giving Pellen a sour look. “Very bloody funny.”

Pellen grinned. “I thought so.”

“Well, it
ain’t,
” he said. “Last thing we need is folk pushin’ and shovin’ to get back over them mountains. Remember how long it took us to pick ourselves up last time? Half the bloody kingdom frighted near to death, for nowt.”

“I remember,” said Pellen, sighing. “And you’re right. We don’t want that again.”

“ ’Sides, ain’t no reason to think anythin’s changed from what poor ole Tollin found,” he added. “But that Fernel bloody Pintte…” He scowled at the new mayor, still jigging with Dathne. “He’s the type as won’t take no for an answer. He’ll push and shove and niggle, thinkin’ sooner or later he’ll turn the tide towards him. And if we got Doranen rowin’ in his boat now…”

“I think the whispers are wrong,” said Pellen. “I can’t believe Rodyn Garrick would join with an Olken.”

“Aye, well—” Asher scratched his chin. “Fingers crossed, eh?” He glanced up. “How you feelin’, any road?”

“I’m fine. Charis takes good care of me. She’s a sweet child. So much like my Ibby. Asher, don’t take this amiss, but—”

“What?” he said, as Pellen hesitated.

“I’d not have her heart broken. So if Rafel’s merely… dallying…” Startled, he stared at his friend. “Rafe and Charis?”

“You didn’t know?”

The Meistress Choice dance was done with, and a new dance started. Asher looked at the whirling, colourful couples and saw his son was partnering some other Olken lass now. She looked familiar but he couldn’t remember her name. Girls were always buzzing round Rafel, bees to a blossom.

“Pellen—” Discomfited, he shook his head. “Rafe ain’t said nowt to me on bein’ partial to Charis.”

“Which is why I worry,” said Pellen. “For you might as well know that she’s partial to him.”

Oh. Then best he had a word with his rakish son, eh?
Last thing I need be him causing a brangle over petticoats. ’Specially with Pellen poorly, and such a good friend.
“I’ll see she ain’t dallied with. My word on it.”

“It’s not me thinking Rafel’s not good enough for her,” Pellen said quickly. “He’s a fine boy. Only… I remember being young and full of hot blood. I remember—” He laughed, a little colour touching his face. “Well. As I say, I’d not have Charis hurt.”

Asher had to grin. So, in his green days Pellen had been a bit of a lad, eh? Prob’ly he’d cut a fine figure in his guardsman’s uniform at that. For himself, he’d only been passing interested in the lasses… leastways until he met Dathne.

“He won’t muck her about, Pellen. Reckless Rafe might be, but not cruel. Not ever.”

Pellen, ’cause he were Pellen, heard the rough beneath the smooth. “You and the boy are still at odds?”

He shrugged, one-shouldered. “He reckons he’s hard done by, but he’ll get over it soon enough.”

“I know you think so,” said Pellen, after a moment. “But Asher—he’s not a child any more. He’s a young man with a gift and he wants to explore it and you’ve not convinced him why he shouldn’t.”

“Don’t need to convince him, do I? I’m his da. What I say goes.”

Pellen shook his head. “Why is it so important to you that he continues this pretence?”

“You bloody know why, Pellen!”

“There’s a difference between him working Doranen magic in private and showing it off in Market Square,” said Pellen, keeping his voice low. “And even if he did show it off, he’s in no danger. Barl’s First Law is dead, Asher. We killed it.”

“That ain’t the point,” he said, irritated. “Rafe might swear blind he won’t cause a ruckus but he’s my son and I know him. The likes of that Arlin Garrick’ll say the wrong thing
one
time and that’ll be that and you can’t pour spilt ale back in the jug, can you? Won’t no good come of lettin’ Rafel explore his
gift
. He can bloody sit on it, like I do. Instead of frettin’ on bloody magic he can make up his mind what he’s to do with his life proper. I’ve had enough of his dabblin’ here and dabblin’ there and never choosin’ a path to walk.”

“That’s not always a simple decision, Asher.”

“Never said it were simple,” he retorted. “But he can’t keep driftin’ rudderless, Pellen. And he can’t keep on hopin’ to make his life about magic. It ain’t goin’ to happen. I ain’t goin’ to let it.”

Pellen sighed. “Well… I’m sure you know best.”

In other words,
Asher, you’re making a mistake
. But he weren’t. He knew in his bones it were dangerous to let Rafel run loose with Doranen magic. “Any road,” he said, “ain’t no cause for you to fret on Charis. I’ll see her right.”

“I know you will,” said Pellen, and patted his shoulder. “It’s just… my lass is at that age, isn’t she? You’ve got Deenie, so you know how it is.”

Deenie. Gardenia. His little brown mouse. He looked for her on the dance floor, but no. She weren’t there. Had she stepped out even once tonight? He didn’t think so. Deenie adored her Uncle Pellen so of course she’d come to the ball, but…

“If I worry,” he said, “it be ’cause she
ain’t
a lass as flutters her eyelashes. Too quiet by far, that’s Deenie. I ain’t even sure where—”

“There,” said Pellen, nodding. “Being persuaded by Charis to flutter a little, I suspect.”

Pellen was right. Charis, all lit up like glimfire in her yellow silk gown, two Olken lads worshipful by her side, was laughing at Deenie, cajoling her to dance. Meek and shy in her own pretty blue dress, Deenie were blushing and shaking her head. Standing behind the long table of refreshments, holding a glass of lemonwater like it were a potion to ward off evil.

Go on, mouse. Have a dance, eh? Have some fun. You can’t stand your whole life unnoticed in the bloody shadows
.

Charis won, of course. Deenie never could resist her best friend for long. Grinning, Asher watched her take one of the young men’s bent arm—Mick Greeley, that was, his da ran Dorana City’s markets, a sober lad, respectable, nowt a whiff of trouble about him—and walk shyly with the lad onto the dance floor. Dathne saw her, and winked. She was all set to dance with young Greeley’s da. The other lad dancing attendance, he could see now, was Rafe’s best friend Goose. With luck Charis would flutter her eyelashes at him. Fall for him, mayhap, and wouldn’t that be useful?

Rafel, Rafel… you better not be triflin’ with Pellen’s only child.

Where was the sprat, any road? Not on the dance floor now. Not at one of the refreshment tables. Not anywhere in the room that he could see. And neither was poxy Arlin Garrick…

Them two. I swear. At each other’s throats from the moment they first met
.

Uneasy, suspicions stirring, he slid off his chair.

“Asher?” said Pellen. “What’s wrong?”

“Nowt,” he said, ’cause his friend didn’t need more to fret on. “Just feel like stretchin’ m’legs a bit. If I take a wander, you’ll be fine?”

That had Pellen pulling a face. “I’m not quite in my dotage yet, thank you. By all means run along. I’m sure I’ll amuse myself tolerably well without you.”

He grinned, briefly. “Aye. I’m sure you bloody will too.”